What It Feels Like
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: A different take on "Like A Virgin". Emma/Will. Spoilers for 1x15. Emma comes to Will's home after the fateful Friday night.


The squawk of the door hinges, admittedly, bothered Emma every single time she had to open Will Schuester's door. The sound reminded her of her failure in this relationship; it reminded her of her confrontation with Terri just inside the apartment door, and it reminded her of the fact that Will was . . . not himself. And she wasn't herself, either.

In fact, she didn't know who she was, and for a woman who always measured herself by the issues in her life and defined her entire personality around them, this was disconcerting.

She had no idea what she was thinking Friday night, throwing herself at Will. As if he'd find that sexy. As if he'd expect that this was going to mean something to her after that. Emma can't kid herself – she isn't the provocative type. And being absolutely honest, that's not who she wants to be, either.

It's not who she thought Will wanted her to be.

Sure, she can't deny that his eyes lit up in a way she'd never seen them do so before when she told him that she wanted to "do the nasty" (did she really say that? Really?) with him. She felt him study her fast-blushing face, but refused to break his gaze. She felt empowered; this was her time to finally take control of her body, and in doing so, set the stage to take control of her life.

And then she left her favourite pair of gold shoes beside the bed and threw her scarf over her face and ran out to her car barefoot.

For once, she didn't bother to clean the handles or wonder about what sort of germs could be lurking in the folds of the floor mats. She got into the car, drove halfway down the street, stopped and began to sob heartbrokenly, so loudly that a dog on the next block heard her wails and matched them with his own howls under the rising full moon.

She spent the entire weekend under her covers in her thickest pair of flannel pajamas, only coming out to go to the bathroom or soothe her growling stomach.

But somewhere in Emma's mind, she knew that if she left this unfinished, she'd never do what she set out to do in the first place – take control. And Emma, though her feelings are as mixed up and entangled as the sixteen year old girls she counsels every day, is an adult.

So that's why now, she's listening to the Schuester door hinges squawk for the fourth time; the second time, unannounced.

He's sprawled in a pair of sweatpants and a grey t-shirt on the couch, watching Armageddon for the umpteenth time. And despite Emma's nervousness, she can't help but pout sympathetically at him when she sees him rubbing his eyes manfully after the touching Bruce Willis and Liv Tyler scene that always has her in tears.

Her car keys jingle against each other and he startles, badly, his head flying up, tears still on his cheeks.

"Emma!"

"Hey," she says, carefully picking her way through the furniture to sit gingerly down on the opposite chair. "Um, I know it's not really appropriate to just walk into someone's house, but – "

"No, Em, it's okay." He's sitting up now, his eyes on her, his hands folded between his knees. "To be honest, I'm a little surprised to see you . . . I kind of thought I wouldn't be seeing you again for awhile."

"Yeah, well." Her voice is low, almost inaudible, and she has to break his gaze, her eyes on the floor. There's an uncomfortable silence.

"Emma, I – "

"Hey, if this is going to be an apology, I'm not really sure it's appropriate. You know, coming from you. Instead of me. I should be the one apologizing here."

"Why would you apologize?"

Now she meets his gaze and is not surprised to see his hazel eyes locked on hers. Emma has trouble meeting direct gazes; Will seems to have no problems at all.

"I just . . . wasn't ready," she whispers, and feels a hot blush start up her cheeks. He doesn't take his eyes from hers, but his mouth relaxes a little, almost sympathetically.

"I know it's stupid," she goes on, "but I feel like if I'd done it that night, Friday night, it wouldn't have been real. It wasn't really on my terms. I thought it was, but it wasn't me, Will, it was a mask, a front."

"Well," he says, his voice soft on the air, "what do you want?"

To her horror, she feels her eyes fill, and she drops them quickly so that he won't see her getting overly emotional. However, two tears drop onto the carpet, and suddenly he's got her hand.

"Em, I'm not going to pressure you. And I don't think it's stupid if you want to wait. You have waited this long; why would I think it's stupid if you wanted to hold onto it a little longer? It's clearly important to you."

"Is it important to you?" she manages to gasp out, her hands coming up to touch the wetness on her face. She feels him gently take her hands from over her eyes and a cool finger tip her chin up so that she's forced to look him in the eyes.

"Is your happiness and comfort important to me?" His eyes are so sympathetic; she feels her lower lip begin to tremble again.

He takes her in his arms, one hand sliding up her back to cup her head, his fingers tangling in her soft hair. The other hand comes to rest lightly on her cheek, his fingers rubbing over her tears. And he kisses her then – the softness of his mouth and lips and the slight tang of coffee on his tongue all she can feel and taste for a moment before she responds, her own hands coming up to finger the softness of his shirt and the roughness of the stubble on his face.

When they break apart, his eyes are shining.

"Yes, sweetheart. This is important to me. I want it to mean something to you. And I want it to mean something to our relationship."

She wraps her arms around him then, her face tucking into his shoulder, her tears wetting the softness of his t-shirt. His hands are warm on her back, rubbing at all the knots under her shoulder blades, and she relaxes into his arms, her eyes closing.

They sit like that for awhile while the end of Armageddon plays on.

When the last credit rolls, she looks him in the eyes.

"I want to try."

//~//

This time, it's different. There's no getting ready, besides a quick brush of her teeth and hair; he takes off his jeans, sitting in his boxer shorts on the bed when she comes out of the bathroom.

"Your curls are gone," he smiles, and fingers her slightly straightened red hair.

"They're a lot of work to maintain when you're brushing your hair," she smiles back, "and anyway, I just want to be comfortable."

He starts with her socks – her black merino wool stockings that she wears when she isn't wearing a dress or a skirt. Today, she's wearing a pair of red skinny pants; he slips off her socks one at a time, laying them neatly on the floor beside the bed. Her pink-tipped toes flex as his warm hands massage her feet; she feels them relax and loosen under his ministrations. He kisses each of her pink toes before she begins to giggle.

"Is this okay?" he asks with a smile, pausing in his kissing.

"It tickles," she replies, and he starts to laugh. "I didn't know you were ticklish."

It's the perfect time for the new, empowered Emma to say something new and empowering; instead, she just blushes. "A little, on my feet."

He moves to her knees, kissing each of the caps, rubbing the fabric of her pants over her legs, and then he's beside her, his hands on her waist.

"Are you sure, sweetheart?"

And this time, she is. "Yeah," she whispers. "It's okay."

He unbuttons the silver button of her pants, begins to slide them down, exposing her lacy black panties. She hears his sharp intake of breath as his fingers skim over the lace on the leg holes. Goosebumps begin to rise along her thighs; she begins to feel a little damp, and shifts a little, trying to get used to the new sensation.

He runs his tongue along her stomach, pushing up her shirt as he goes. She lifts her arms obediently, but he doesn't take it off right away; instead, he leaves it bunched just above her bra, pausing at the swell of her creamy breasts in the black lace.

"Did you wear this for me?" His voice is rough, jagged; she hears a timbre in it she's never heard before in Will Schuester's smooth tenor.

"Maybe," she grins, but the blush on her cheeks betrays her. He smiles, runs a finger along the underwire.

"I like it."

He takes her shirt off, admiring the spray of freckles along her collarbone and shoulders. "I want to kiss every one of them."

"We'd be here awhile," she says, her voice shy, and he smiles against the point of her clavicle, nipping it gently. She experiences a sensation so strong that her hips buck a little, and his hands travel down to rest on them, to run along the top of her panties.

Emma lays back on the bed, closes her eyes.

Will hooks his thumbs around the elastic of the panties, moving them inch by inch, exposing her slowly. She begins to shake; the sensation of his touch is so heightened, and she begins to soak through her panties. Her eyes widen; she puts a hand over his, just before he slides the panties off completely.

"What? What is it?" His voice is soft; he begins to stroke her stomach soothingly. She relaxes, just barely.

"I'm making a mess," she whispers, and he looks confused for a moment until realization dawns on his face, and he laughs a little.

"No, sweetie, that's supposed to happen."

She shakes her head, just slightly, and he rests his head on her tummy, rubbing her sides and arms soothingly. "It's okay. It's not messy. It's normal."

She doesn't say anything for a moment, and he takes his cue to continue to slide her panties off. As soon as she's totally exposed, he moves over her, and she feels his desire pressing against her. She hears the slight crackling of a condom wrapper, and he guides her hand down. She feels the slick of the rubber on him and blushes, moving her fingers away.

"Are you ready?" he whispers, and she nods, barely.

"I'll be gentle," he promises, a bit inanely, since she already knows he'll be gentle, and she kind of wishes he'd just stop talking about it and get on with it. She moves her head impatiently on the pillow and then her eyes widen as he enters her.

It hurts; she's scared, and she almost asks him to stop. He moves a little, and then she doesn't feel sore; she just feels, well, filled.

"Is this it?" she whispers, and he smiles against her neck.

"This is only the start of it, Em."

He begins to move, almost barely, just slightly rocking his hips against her. She catches the rhythm quickly, and rocks her hips in time to his. She feels a sudden warmth, and a sudden sensation begins to awaken in her belly – a slightly urgent, longing sensation. She begins to push more at him, and his expression changes, his eyes darkening.

The sex becomes more insistent. He manages to hold himself back fairly well, letting her take the lead. She grabs his shoulders; her hands move over his back, she rocks her hips harder, feeling him thrust deeper. She starts to feel pain again, but shakes her head against it, feeling the sensation in her belly begin to grow.

He doesn't expect she'll come; it's very rare for that to happen the first time. But something happens; her eyes grow wide and her mouth opens; he hears a slight, harsh intake of breath, and then she closes her eyes, warmth suffusing him. He comes then, satisfyingly, and slumps over her, feeling her breath against his ear.

She lies there for a moment, Will's weight on top of her, her body warm and relaxed and damp, and for once, she isn't thinking about the mess, or how the sheets will need to be washed, or how sweaty she is. For once, she feels empowered.

Maybe this is what Madonna meant – maybe this is what it feels like to really have control of your body.

Emma leans over, kisses Will all over his hair and forehead and ears.

"Thank you."

He looks up at her, his eyes warm. "No, thank you."


End file.
